"I like Freddie."
He nods, leaning back. The plastic chair creaks ominously beneath his six-foot-two frame. "I do too, when it's not deceiving me into thinking you're a man."
"The deception was unintentional." I tear back the paper wrapping around my pastrami. "This, right here, is the best sandwich New York has to offer."
A glance up reveals Tristan, arms crossed over his chest, staring at me.
"Did I say something wrong?"
"How long did you say you'd lived in New York?"
"Um, a month and a half. No, almost two now."
"Then you're in no position to judge the city's best sandwich." He reaches for his own. "There's nearly as many restaurants as people in this city, and there's a shit ton of people, so that's saying a lot."
I take a bite of sandwich and flavors erupt in my mouth. Pastrami. Reuben dressing. Rye bread. Wiping at my mouth with my napkin, I shake my head at him.
"Don't tell me you're one of the snobby New Yorkers."
"Snobby New Yorkers?"
"Yes," I say. "Who disdain everything a tourist would like."
He takes a bite of his sandwich, his gaze not leaving mine. I wait as he chews. "Good, right?"
"It's good," he admits. "Not the best the city has to offer, though. And for the record, I don't disdain everything a tourist likes. I just… disdain that they are there too."
I laugh, leaning back in my chair. "That might be the most New York sentiment ever. Despite the money they bring the city, you'd rather will them away."
"Tourists and pigeons," he mutters, reaching for another French fry. "The bane of every big-city dweller."
I shake my head. "So you're cynical, too. You must have lived in the city for a long time?"
"All my life."
"Wow. A native New Yorker."
"Manhattanite," he corrects, but he's grinning as he says it. "We're very protective of the status."
"Oh, of course. My bad. I didn't mean to include the outer boroughs in my initial statement."
"I can overlook the mistake."
"Thank you, Mr. Conway. Very kind of you."
He puts down his sandwich. "Mr. Conway. A couple of days ago, I was Tristan."
I look away from the heaviness of his gaze, back down to my own sandwich. A stray pickle has escaped. "That was in a compromised position."
"Protecting my son's elephant," he says, "on a Ferris wheel from hell."
I reach for another French fry. "Exactly. Where's your son tonight?"
"At home."
I look over at him in surprise and he snorts. "He's not alone."
"Phew."
"I'm not that irresponsible of a parent." Tristan leans back in his plastic chair, crossing his arms over his chest, looking like he's never been irresponsible a day in his life.
I push an escaped tendril of hair back. "So, as a native New Yorker, what are your favorite spots?"
His smile is crooked. "You want insider tips?"
"I want to see the city. Tell me where I should go."
"There's a tiny deli on the end of 74th and West. It serves these great pastrami sandwiches," he deadpans, "but oddly enough, they also have Chinese food."
"Watch yourself," I warn him.
Tristan's smile is wide and uninhibited, leaving me dazed. "I'd never mock you, Freddie."
"Sure you wouldn't." But I'm smiling as I shake my head. "I should have known better than to ask advice from an Upper West Sider."
"There's something wrong with this area?"
"No one talks to one another," I say. "I don't know the name of a single person in my building, except the doorman and my super."
"That's New York." He raises an eyebrow. "I didn't know you were so sociable, Strait-laced."
I groan. "I really don't like that nickname."
"It's a shame, because I really do. It's what I called you in my head before I met the real you."
My fingers tighten around my sandwich. "So you thought about me after the party, huh?"
His eyes lock with mine. "You thought about me."
"You're so confident in that."
"Well?" he asks, an eyebrow rising. "Didn't you?"
"I did," I admit. The tension between us rises another notch, the air vibrating around me. "And when I met you, I couldn't help but wonder…"
"Yes?" he prompts.
"Wonder why you go to those parties."